


Carb Coma

by Chicklet_Girl



Category: NCIS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicklet_Girl/pseuds/Chicklet_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Tim, the day after Thanksgiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carb Coma

**Author's Note:**

> For **carleton97** , who's stuck at work the day after Thanksgiving.

“Are we going to have leftovers from these leftovers?”

Tim peers over the breakfast bar into his kitchen, where a dozen plastic Tupperware containers are scattered all over the counter. “Probably.”

“Okay, then,” Tony says, sliding off his barstool and grabbing his plate. “I’ll skip having more potatoes.” He walks slowly into the kitchen and rinses off his plate.

Tim pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “What are you doing?” He asks this because Tony is not usually one for starting clean-up right away. Or by himself.

Tony snaps the lid onto the plastic container of leftover cranberry-orange relish and licks a spot of the relish off his thumb. “Putting stuff away, loading the dishwasher, you know.” He turns and stacks the containers in the refrigerator.

Tim finishes chewing his last bite of pecan pie. “Uh, yeah, I figured out that much. It’s just that most of the time, you leave that to me.”

“The thing is, McGee,” Tony says, as he opens the dishwasher and starts loading it, “If I don’t lie down in the next five minutes, I’m going to fall asleep on your kitchen floor, and that’ll be murder on my back.”

Huh. Come to think of it, Tim is feeling a little sleepy. They do have the day off. And Tony’s actually cleaning up, which is a minor miracle. Tim stands up, walks into the kitchen, and rinses off his plate, hip-checking Tony out of the way so he can put his plate and fork in the dishwasher.

Once the dishwasher is running (it makes a little sloshing sound that Tim finds oddly soothing), he looks up to see Tony disappearing into the bedroom, and follows. When he gets there, Tony’s already laying in the bed, sheet pulled up to his shoulders. Tim pauses, because this is seriously his life: Tony sleeping over, making toast in the morning, loading the dishwasher. Tony settled into his bed and looking at Tim like there’s whipped cream on his face. Tim reflexively swipes his knuckle over the end of his nose.

“Well, c’mon, McGee,” Tony says, holding up the sheet on Tim’s side of the bed. “It’s not like you have a couch.”

Tim goes over to the bed and climbs in, liking the way Tony pulls the sheet over him and rubs his shoulder. The afternoon sun floods the room with light and warmth, and Tim stretches out his legs and back, like a cat.

Tony moves onto his back and closes his eyes. “For the record, I have a couch.”

Tim presses up against Tony’s side. “Yeah, but we both can’t fit on it.”

Tony opens his eyes and raises his eyebrows at Tim, who has to backpedal. “I meant, for sleeping.” Because both of them do fit on Tony’s couch very nicely for other things.

“That’s what I thought you meant, McGee,” Tony replies, patting Tim’s hip. He yawns hugely. “Man, that pie was amazing.”

Tim wraps his arm around Tony’s chest. “Abby put bourbon in the whipped cream.”

“So that’s why Gibbs ate so much of it,” Tony says, chuckling a little.

“You had your fair share, too,” Tim says, snuggling in a little closer and letting the warmth pull him under.

“Third round of food at my place,” Tony mumbles sleepily. “It’ll be time to watch _Christmas Story_.”

“But it’s not even December yet.”

“But that movie’s all about the turkey, McGee.” Something about that statement seems wrong, but Tim can’t figure out what before he falls asleep.


End file.
